That was this morning's speed workout. A big Samoan dude took exception to my extra stare at his Wahine. I may be fat and out of shape but nothing like 'ole Kimo.

 

And Candice, if he ate like me he wouldn't run near as fast. I need to drop a few pounds but first I need to run more.

 In training he was fearless, felt himself too easily capable of
violence. He often contemplated what he would do if someone
stopped and challenged him. He figured he would put them
through a little of what his life was all about first; taunt them into
giving chase. He would stay just a little out of their grasp, egg
them on and on. Perhaps they would make half a mile or so,
depending on how well he could lead them on, perhaps their own
sense of pride might surface, a byproduct of a terrible
misconception about what was actually happening. Shorter had
once run the legs off an entire gang of hooligans in the hills of
New Mexico, despite already being tired from a I5-mile run. You
would watch for the signs, Cassidy thought, the ones you knew so
very well; the pain, the bewilderment, the blankness that would
eventually come close to despair. He would make it a challenge, so
they would forget their original purpose and keep on going just to
show this bastard, this...this...(then it would dawn) runner.

Then he would simply turn and face them. He would take on
anyone like that, he thought. He would take on Muhammad Ali, so
long as he could direct the preliminaries.

Cassidy knew very well that he could take men, otherwise
strong and brave men, to places they had never been before. Places
where life and death overlapped in surreal valleys of muscle gloom
and heart despair, where one begins to realize once more that
nothing really matters at all and that stopping (death?) is all; where
all men can finally get the slick skin of civilization off and see that
soft pink glow inside that tells you-in both cunnilingus and bullet
wounds-that there are no secrets.

A visitor's taste, in short, of the distance runner's daily fare. He
would fight them then, if they still wanted to, after they knew. But
they wouldn't want to, he was sure of that. They would walk away
with nothing more than a hard-won understanding.

 That was this morning's speed workout. A big Samoan dude took exception to my extra stare at his Wahine. I may be fat and out of shape but nothing like 'ole Kimo.

 

This reminds me of the 100m in the World Championships like 8-10 years ago.  You see, each country is entitled to send 1 athlete in ANY event if they don't have a single one that qualifies outright for anything.  Well, Samoa sent a guy in the 100m....typical Samoan shape.  He was damn serious stretching into the blocks, though it looked more like a sumo wrestler doing his pre-match stomping.  The gun went off, and the camera spit him out the back as the hard-bodied sprinters blew out of the gates and down the track.  The camera stopped on the finish line as everybody finished and....several seconds later....maybe in the 14-15sec range....you saw the Samoan coming into frame just as they cut away to the post-race interviews.  Funny stuff.

MTA:  Got the better of me, had to look it up.  I was not exaggerating.  2001, Edmonton, Trevor Misipeka, 14.28sec.